the path to freedom is an arduous road
by quillquate
Summary: In which Rachel and Zack find their way back to each other through a series of convoluted events (except, not really because Zack still hasn't fixed his tendency of smashing through anything that's in his way. Rachel isn't complaining though).
1. Chapter 1

When Rachel opened her eyes, it was to an awful, familiar white. She stared at it, blinking dazedly as a monotone beeping served as background noise. She then turned her head to the left and found an IV drip with a needle attached to her veins. Further away was a plant, green leaves perked up and waxed. _It looks too perfect,_ Rachel thought. _Probably fake._

She shifted around so that her gaze was once again fixated on the ceiling. Everything felt out of place. And this time, she didn't have anything as an anchor. Only her and the silence of the room.

Rachel's body was numb and weightless. All she wanted to do was sink back into the blankets, never to emerge again. Even so, there was a deep aching within her, a feeling she couldn't identify, the nagging itch that she was forgetting something important.

Her head hurt. She went back to sleep.

* * *

"Isaac Foster, that's your name, yes?"

Zack scowled fiercely, crossing his arms. A sharp-eyed woman was sitting poised in front of him, and to his left was a man, flipping through notes on a pad. Behind him was a one-way mirror. The room was bare, except for chairs and a table. The gray paint on the walls and ceiling, he saw, were flaking off.

The woman noticed his wandering eyes. "Isaac Foster, is there something interesting you'd like to share? Or perhaps you prefer Zack?"

"Don't use my first name like we're friends," Zack sneered, kicking his legs up on the table. The woman said nothing but looked faintly disapproving. "If you really want my opinion, I'd "prefer" it if I could get the hell away from you fucks."

"Now, Isaac-"

"What part of "don't use my first name" didn't you get?" Zack demanded, leaning forward. His disgruntlement at the lack of fear from the bitch vanished when the man flinched and dropped his pen. It made a loud, clattering sound once it hit the floor. _Still got it,_ he thought with satisfaction.

"Foster, then," the bitch (not the Bitch, no, that special title was reserved for someone who was well below six feet under) said, unruffled. "My name is Eliza. The man over there is Detective David."

"Hooray, you know your own goddamn names. You want a star or something? Sorry to disappoint, but I'm fresh out."

The bitch just pasted on another obviously fake smile and continued her spiel. "So, Foster, tell me about yourself. Where were you before you ended up here?"

"Do you police people have literal shit for eyes?" Zack said incredulously. "The building that burned down, dumbass. You know, the one you found me in front of? Ringing any bells in that empty head of yours?"

"Could you provide us with more details about the fire?" the man (detective?) said, retrieved pen poised above the notepad. To Zack's annoyance, the fear from earlier seemed to have already faded.

"First of all, it was hot," Zack said.

The detective looked annoyed. "And? Anything else?"

"Hmm...nope, I think that's all you need to hear, so can you maybe fuck off? Thanks."

"You-"

"Detective, please let me handle the interrogation," the bitch said frostily.

"O-oh, yes, of course." The spineless bastard backed off immediately, physically scooting himself backwards in his chair. Zack snorted in amusement.

"Alright, Foster, let's try to take another approach to this." She folded her hands neatly in her lap. "You're accused of being the serial killer behind the random murders in the alleyways. You are also accused of kidnapping one Rachel Gardner and murdering her parents. Do you accept this verdict?"

 _When the fuck can I murder this bitch again? Literally the only thing she knows how to do is spewing shit. Is that what she put on her resume? How the hell did she get this job then? Oh wait, I forgot that the police have no standards, natural when they live up in their own assholes - ah, shit, I've been quiet for too long - hurry up and say something, fuck-_

"You police are so uptight. Who the fuck cares if a few nobodies get offed? Some people would even thank me." Zack leaned back on his chair, balancing on only two legs. "Although since I don't like taking credit away from other people, I'll say this: I didn't do jack shit to any Gardner."

There. That should keep them satisfied. Zack looked at the two people from underneath his eyelashes. The detective looked obviously agitated (did they seriously send some _rookie_ to deal with _him_? Zack almost felt offended) and the bitch was finally showing some other emotion than false friendliness, which in Zack's opinion, was at least ten points to him

"I'm afraid to say that your word isn't enough to save you from your crimes," the bitch said with forced composure.

Zack groaned and threw his hands up in the air. "Then what's the fucking point of having this interrogation at all?!"

"Look, you better up just 'fess up now. We all know you did it, you filthy liar of a crimi-"

"Detective David! Your only job is to provide the facts and nothing else, so remain silent!" the bitch said sharply. She exhaled loudly. She then looked up at the sky as if she hoped that some god would save her at any moment, something Zack knew secondhand wouldn't happen.

"We'll continue this later." She sighed. "This would go so much faster if you just cooperated."

"Shit, man, I told you the truth, what more d'ya want to know?"

"The truth? Is that really what you call it?" the bitch asked. She shook her head before rising from her seat. "You'll be escorted back to the hospital to recuperate. You'll be sedated to make sure you do not aggravate your injuries-"

"Or decide to kill you, right?" Zack gave a nasty grin.

She didn't respond and exited by slamming the door open with a resounding bang.

Zack counted that as ten more points to his side.

* * *

Rachel woke up to the same sight of the white ceiling. It seemed like she was still in the same place as last time. She sighed a little and brought her knees to her chest. There was a muffled tang of pain, but it wasn't anything Rachel couldn't ignore. _I still feel like I'm forgetting something,_ she thought, folding her arms on top of her knees. She caught a glimpse outside from a sliver between drawn curtains. A bright, bright blue bled through them; Rachel could also hear the distant sounds of birds chirping. _It's daytime, then._

She didn't know how long she remained like that, but an unexpected knock broke the peaceful silence in the room. Rachel watched as the door creaked open. A woman in a pastel blue uniform walked through, holding a clipboard in her hand. She could see the nurse's eyes widen as she took in the sight of Rachel sitting upright in the bed.

"You're awake! I'm glad, we were starting to wonder when you would wake up," the nurse said.

"Why am I here?" Rachel asked, cutting straight to the point.

The nurse blinked before shaking her head. "Yes...yes, of course you wouldn't remember, that's expected after what you've just been through. You've been involved in an accident, honey. We found you next to a burning building, along with- oh, I don't know if I should be telling you this. It might be better to let the memories come back on their own."

"Please," Rachel said softly. "Why am I here?"

"Why don't you rest for a while? The previous events were very traumatizing, especially for a young girl like you, Rachel. You really should take it easy for a while." The nurse flipped through some papers. She worried her lip, wearing an expression of someone caving in. She shuffled through the papers again as a delay tactic before saying, "You've been shot by a gun and you're also suffering from a few burns. The building you were in caught on fire, do you remember? The police think there was an explosion that a group of people started. A cult, maybe. It was all very terrifying, and I wasn't even there at the time!"

The pounding in Rachel's heart grew louder, so did her head. She rubbed her temples in efforts to drive it away. The nurse looked on with concern. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Tell me more, please," Rachel said.

"...You were found with a suspected serial killer, Isaac Foster. He hasn't admitted to all he has done, but don't worry, that man won't be able to get to you, our hospital prides itself in security- Are you sure you're alright? You're starting to get very pale."

"I-" Rachel began, her heart feeling like it was being grasped by a cold hand. She tried to get out another word, only for a quiet wail to come out.

"Rachel?" The nurse reached out just as Rachel's world down spiraled.

Colors flashed in her head, followed by images flickering by with dizzying speed. None of it made sense, it was all going by too fast, she was going to crash. Rachel clutched at her hair and put her head down between her knees, the nurse's frightened voice not registering at all. She dimly heard someone screaming, thin and reedy, hiccups interrupting every so often.

 _Oh,_ she thought absentmindedly. _That's me._

And then all form of coherent thought were snatched away.

She felt like she was being jerked up and down by a malfunctioning elevator. Actors and actresses rewound and replayed; crumbled stages changed to become new, only to break down again; garbled lines came out in various frequencies.

One through six, how many left alive? A deranged face with too many eyes and yet not enough to spare, graves for those who rested in eternal agony and a green stare, rooms upon rooms with hundreds of functions that made heads spin before falling dead, stained glass shattered as organ keys wept pink smoke of dread, the red thread wrapped around the moon once, twice, thrice - who else, who else was left in this mad game, who else, who else? The damned souls cried as they knelt before their god, their god, a promise broken and yet repaired, it was all too much, _I can't do this, please, kill me!_

… _"Kill me"?_

 _Who...who did I say that to again?_

...

 _Oh, that's right. It was-_

"Rachel? Rachel, are you okay? I already called the doctor, he should be here any moment now. Everything's going to be alright, I swear-"

Slowly, Rachel opened her eyes, teardrops clinging onto her lashes. The world grew brighter as the illusions faded away into the shadows. Her face felt flushed and her nose was running, but despite how many times her mother's voice screamed about the importance of appearances, she couldn't care less.

There was only one thing that mattered now.

"...Zack!"


	2. Chapter 2

"Ray!" Zack lurched to a sitting position, hands balled into fists at his side. He looked around frantically. White walls. Tacky plant. Big window.

No girl.

"Tch." Zack ran a hand through his hair, messing it up even more from the usual spikes. The other, he soon discovered, was handcuffed to the bed. It explained why his wrist felt sore. "...It's too fucking early for this shit."

He stretched out on the hospital bed. The drugs seemed to have worn off as Zack felt absolutely fan-fucking-tastic, if not for the fact that he had been caught by the police and trapped in a room with a terrible sense of interior design. Not that he knew anything about design but the point still stood.

The point being that it fucking sucked like an old man's balls.

"Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck, you goddamn government maggots, get hit by a truck," Zack chanted under his breath. He flopped onto his side, frowning. "If only they were that easy to kill off."

The next twenty minutes were spent making up similar rhymes until he noticed an abandoned newspaper on a chair next to the bed. Curious and bored (a deadly combination), he leaned over and opened it. He immediately started cursing at the tiny print. "Screw letters," he grumbled.

He was ready to toss it on the ground when a familiar set of squiggles caught his eye. Beneath it featured a grainy photo of a dazed-looking girl with blonde hair. It was hard to tell by the shitty quality, but it kind of looked like Ray. Recent, too, judging from the numbers scrawled on the corner.

Then...that meant the squiggles was probably her name.

 _Guess she's still alive, then,_ Zack thought. A knot of tension he didn't know was there loosened and he huffed out a laugh. "Even with all the whining about wanting to die, that little shit sure is hard to kill off."

Mood lightened, he surveyed his surroundings once more after dumping the newspaper on the ground. Zack caught sight of a small camera observing his every move and flicked a cheeky grin at it, along with two healthy servings of his middle fingers.

He could probably break out if not for the whole handcuff situation. There were about two feet of slack chain, by his estimate. As good as he was, even Zack wouldn't be able to escape with a bed attached to him. The damn thing was bolted to the ground and the handcuff was impossible to slip out of.

"What to do, what to do," Zack hummed. "I can either go back to sleep, admire this garbage of a room, or..." A wide smile split his face. "I can smash some shit.

The decision wasn't very hard to make.

* * *

Paul took a nice, long sip of his coffee as he focused on papers, signing them with a lax hand. He finally had gotten a break from the constant stream of patients, something he was planning on savouring for a good thirty minutes. Paul wasn't naive enough to believe it would last any longer. _The hospital's hypocritical in the sense that it sends its workers to an early grave,_ he thought cynically.

He indulged in a slice of cake Tina had bought earlier that day. It was a creamy, strawberry flavor with just the right amount of frosting at the top. He peered over another set of papers before signing them as well, munching on a fresh strawberry.

"It's going to be a good day," Paul said out loud, knowing full well he was lying to himself. Ah, well. Nothing like a healthy amount of denial to survive work.

His spoken words were proved wrong five minutes later (as expected) when his walkie-talkie started crackling, a frazzled voice coming on over the line. "Doctor, are you in?"

Paul cast a mournful look at his unfinished plate before saying, "Yes, I am. Is there a problem?" _Of course there's a problem, who am I kidding?_

"Patient Rachel Gardner has started suffering from an episode of some sorts, probably from trauma. I didn't mean to trigger it, I, I apologize deeply for my conduct. Please, can you come right now? I'm afraid she might hurt herself at this rate!"

"I'll be right there. For now, leave the patient alone and stay out of range in case she attacks," Paul replied, already halfway out of his seat. He marched out from closed doors and briskly walked down the hall, avoiding machines and other people with practiced ease. Over the walkie-talkie, he could hear the nurse trying to calm the patient. It didn't seem to be going very well.

After what felt like an hour, Paul finally arrived at his destination. Room 316 was written on a plaque next to the door. He looked at it grimly before opening the door. "I'm here."

"Doctor," the nurse said ( _Marisa_ , he distantly recalled. _A new nurse employed just a month ago_ ), relief lighting up her face.

"How is the patient?" Paul inquired. He shut the door behind him before taking a look at the patient. Thankfully, she seemed to have settled down and was currently staring blankly at her hands. She shifted when she realized someone new had entered the room.

"Are you the doctor?" The patient looked up from her bed, a startling clarity to her blue eyes. Paul almost took a step back in alarm. He shook his head. Ridiculous. Get a hold of yourself, this isn't the time for hesitation.

"Yes, I am. You are Rachel Gardner, correct?" Paul asked, trying for a warm expression.

The patient blinked slowly. "Mhm."

"I came as fast as I could when Miss Marisa alerted me. You seem to be alright now, though?" He walked further into the room and surreptitiously gestured at Marisa to step to the side. She nodded slightly with a flush to her cheeks, most likely embarrassed from causing the patient distress.

"Yes. I'm fine. But...could I ask a question?"

"Of course."

"Where's Zack?" the patient asked. He couldn't help but notice her expression sharpening as she put forth her question and resisted the urge to recoil again.

"Zack?" Paul repeated once he had regained his bearings. He shot a look at Marisa who only gave a shrug in return. "Is he family or a friend?"

The patient's lips upturned into a small smile. "He's my friend.¨

"Why do you think we would know where this Zack would be, Rachel?¨ Paul asked.

"Because he was probably with me," the patient said. Her previous smile faded and a faintly worried expression replaced it. _Worry,_ Paul noted clinically, _and a bit of fear. Perhaps she thinks she's been abandoned?_

"Nobody was with you, Rachel," Marisa piped up from the corner, her voice more confident. "No one except that serial kil - um…" And then the confidence went straight down the drain. Paul groaned inaudibly. Marisa mumbled an apology until suddenly, her face started to pale quickly, fists clenching.

"Marisa? Is there something wrong?"

The nurse bit her lip, tugging at her uniform. "It's just, um, a thought that crossed my mind. That's all."

"Uh-huh," Paul drawled. "Care to share that thought?"

Judging from Marisa's conflicted expression, her mind was warring against each other, both sides in heavy debate. After about fifteen seconds, Marisa walked to his side and, pointedly avoiding all eye-contact with the patient, whispered, "The serial killer's name was Isaac Foster."

He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

" _Isaac_ ," she stressed. Marisa spared a look at the patient who looked slightly bemused. She hastily redirected her eyes and said, "Couldn't this Zack she's talking about be Isaac Foster?"

"Marisa, don't be ridiculous," Paul dismissed. "I think you've been reading too many fiction novels."

Marisa giggled nervously and said, "Yes, you must be right. I wouldn't suppose a monster like that would make a good friend. I did read an interesting thriller novel the other day-"

"Zack's not a monster."

Paul turned around and once again found himself pinned by the patient's eyes; this time, he wasn't able to shake it away. "Pardon?"

"Zack's not a monster," the patient repeated, her voice quiet. "He's human, like you or her."

 _You're kidding me,_ Paul thought incredulously. He remembered reading newspapers about the string of murders a while back. The corpses of the victims' nearly made him throw up and he was a _doctor_. It was heavily implied that the murderer didn't have a solid reason for the killings, except for sick amusement. _If she considers_ that _human, then I fear for her sanity._

"Rachel," Marisa tried. Her face practically screamed that she regretted speaking up at all but still, she pressed on. "He murdered many people. That doesn't make him a good person."

The patient stared back defiantly from her bed. Paul felt uneasy. She should look frail, weak in her handicapped position but she looked anything but. When the patient spoke, her voice was filled with conviction. "I never said he was good . But to me, he's just Zack. Not a monster, but human. He bleeds, he feels, what more do you need? So, please answer my question."

"Rachel-"

"Where is he?" the patient said, her voice growing louder. "Where's Zack?"

"Please, Rachel-"

"Tell me."

"He's alive," Paul said, his hand on the doorknob. All semblance of being friendly dropped as he replied. "He's being treated but will soon be sent to prison for temporary confinement."

"Doctor!" Marisa hissed.

"Treated here," the patient said flatly.

"...Yes."

"Doctor-" Marisa looked between them frantically, shaking.

"Take me to him."

"I refuse."

"Why?"

"Why do you think?"

"That's not good enough. Why?"

"I have no obligation to answ-"

"Please, stop!" Marisa burst, slamming her clipboard onto the counter. Paul turned around in astonishment. Gone was the meek, unassuming Marisa who had cowered in a corner. There were tears starting to well up but despite them, she stood steadfast. With a quick glance to the side, he could see that the patient was startled as well, although she masked it well.

"There...there isn't any reason why we shouldn't be able to talk this out peaceably!" Marisa said tremulously. She inhaled deeply, presumably preparing herself to unleash a verbal lashing that Paul should probably stop but he couldn't stop gaping. "Doctor, you're purposefully trying to be obstinate towards Rachel and that isn't going to get anyone anywhere! Instead of running around her, just leave it at no instead of trying to be annoyingly cryptic!"

"Annoyingly-"

"And, and Rachel! Please don't lash out at the doctor, he's trying his best even under his exterior. The facts-" Here, Marisa took another deep breath. "the facts state that Isaac Foster was a serial killer and you can't blame us for refusing to let you see him! This "Zack" you know might only be a trick, and-"

"It's not!" the patient interrupted, her voice high and desperate in a sudden burst of hysteria. "I trust him with my life, you're the ones who don't know anything!"

"Really?" Paul shot back even with the alarm bells ringing in his head that this was breaking at least twenty rules of hospital protocol. To his side, Marisa looked like she couldn't decide whether to cry or scream. "How can you say that for certain?"

"Zack hates liars, so it wouldn't make sense if he himself is one. That's just not the type of person he is," she said, almost as if she was trying to convince herself. Her quickened breaths started to slow as she regained composure, evidently assured by her own reasoning. The patient's eyes transitioned into a dull blue.

And yet... there was a gleam of stubbornness in them still.

 _Stockholm syndrome,_ Paul thought with a dash of pity. His temper deflated when he realized that the patient was mentally unstable and interrogating her harshly most likely wouldn't do anything, other than make him an adult bully. And how sad would that be? _A certified doctor bullying a barely teenaged girl._

"Let's...let's stop talking about this, please," Marisa said softly. "Our main job is to make our patients feel better, not to pressure them."

"Very well," Paul said. He straightened out his white coat before opening the door. "I'm sure you can handle things now, Marisa."

Marisa picked up her clipboard from where she put it on the counter. Her previous courage died down into her usual mild demeanor as her posture hunched, hugging her clipboard. "Yes, Doctor."

The patient, looking dissatisfied, refused to even acknowledge his leaving. He bit back an explosive sigh as he closed the door with a click.

For a few moments, Paul reflected on what happened as he leaned on a nearby wall. His shoulders sagged.

 _God, I need a drink,_ Paul thought.

Two seconds later, Paul could hear a crash coming from the upper floors along with the sound of maniacal laughter. He watched as security rushed past him, armed with batons and an occasional gun. The clatter of feet faded as they ran up the stairs. Silence held for only a minute before yelling and other various noises followed.

 _Make that multiple drinks._


	3. Chapter 3

"You again?" Zack said. He was back in that dull, gray room. Everything almost looked the same, except that asshole detective wasn't there anymore. Instead, an older man replaced his seat, hunched over papers with a pencil in his hand.

Also, the layer of paint was almost gone, revealing cracks and dark stains that suspiciously looked like blood. _Police trying to keep their reputation squeaky clean,_ he thought. _Although I guess they don't give a shit anymore._

The bitch folded her legs like some prissy princess ready to take her tea. That is to say, unnecessarily annoying-like. "Yes. It seems like you've gotten into quite a lot of trouble, Isaac Foster. Would it really have been that hard to just stay put?"

"What did you think would happen?" Zack said with a lazy grin. "I'm not going to sit pretty when I have the option of annoying you fuckers."

"You have such a low opinion of us," the bitch said.

"Wow, amazing deduction! Next thing you know, fucking Sherlock's going to be ringing the door for your brilliant observation skills!" Zack swerved his head to look at the door exaggeratedly, bulging out mismatched eyes. "Hm, not here? Bet he caught scent of your piss-poor attitude."

"The sarcasm isn't appreciated so please put it away. Detective Philip, if you would?" The bitch gestured at the other person in the room, the man who had his head ducked into notes. She cleared her throat pointedly when he didn't respond. "Detective Philip?"

"Oh, yes, sorry. According to this, you managed to dent a few machines as well as knock out teeth from security when they attempted to restrain you. Your weapon was a...potted plant? Hm. Note to self, replace ceramic pots with plastic…" the detective muttered, scribbling something down on a notepad.

"What, are you filling in for that douchebag from earlier?" Zack gave a sharp grin. "Hope you're not as green."

"Mhm," the detective mumbled without looking up.

The bitch interrupted with another clearing of her throat. She sounded like a frog giving birth was stuck in her voicebox. _Which is a disgusting image that I'm going to get out of my head right now-_ "Foster, speaking of hopes, I do hope you realize that this incident hasn't painted you in the best light. It's a miracle you haven't been shipped straight off to be executed."

"It's a miracle no one has killed you yet, you bitch too much. Although I shouldn't be surprised given that you're more female dog than human," Zack said.

The detective whistled lowly. "Ouch."

"Please keep unnecessary comments to yourself, Detective Philip," she said tightly. "Okay. So this is how it's going to work." The bitch placed her arms on the table and leaned forward. "You're going to tell us what happened. The complete truth, and nothing but the truth. Is that clear?"

"Why the hell do you think I'm going to listen to you?"

"Because otherwise, you really will be executed," the bitch said. She looked at him meaningfully like what she just said was supposed to fucking mean something. Which it didn't. Death threats weren't anything new. "You're not going to talk? I'm going to bring up a few topics to get our conversation started. Let's start with...Rachel Gardner, shall we?"

Zack straightened in his seat and shot a withering glare. "Not this shit again. I said that I didn't do anything to her, what more do you need?"

"Oh? But you seem oddly defensive about this topic," the bitch said, smiling. "You're hiding something, aren't you? Perhaps you'd like to talk about why you kidnapped Miss Gardner?"

"Kidnap? I'd rather kill people outright than go through something as troublesome as that. Putting up with whining brats isn't my style. And I'm the wrong person to ask about that," Zack said. "You know, given the account I didn't do it and all."

"Then who's the right person to ask?" the detective questioned, cutting in. The yellow, flickering light reflected off of his glasses as he waited for Zack's reply.

"Someone who's a rotting and charred corpse. Good riddance, too."

"And their name is…?" he pressed.

"Daniel Dickbag Dickens, is that ringing a bell? Part-time doctor, full-time psycho?" Zack twirled a finger around his head and stuck out his tongue, although that probably wasn't enough to fully express the bastard's insanity.

"Isn't that the doctor that went missing?" the detective said to the bitch.

She laced her fingers together and rested on them, looking to be deep in thought. "Yes. He went missing about a week ago, around the same time frame of Rachel Gardner's disappearance. The hospital called in when he didn't show up for work and - ah. I see how it is. Don't think you can get out of your crimes by pinning the blame on someone else. I suppose you're also his killer, then? Murdering a respectable doctor…how vile," the bitch said.

"You sure are making a hell lot of assumptions," Zack said with a curl of his lips. "That bastard was more twisted than me by a tenfold. At least I don't go preying on teenage girls just for the body parts or some shit. Peepers this and peepers that...he was so goddamn happy that I _wish_ I killed him. Seeing people stupidly frolicking around gets on my fucking nerves."

The bitch looked utterly unconvinced. "Doctor Danny was a perfectly stable man who had a brilliant work ethic. He had no motive to kidnap Rachel Gardner."

"Uh-huh, sure," Zack drawled. "Just ignore what I said. That's definitely going to help you solve your little mystery or whatever."

"I'm afraid you misunderstand. The perpetrator is none other than you, Isaac Foster. There's no mystery about that."

"You can't prove anything. I told you who did it, why don't you try digging up that trail, hm?"

The bitch gave a nasty smile. "Who cares about the words of a filthy criminal? After all…" She inspected her nails before looking up, her eyes cold with a vindictive glint to them.

"It's just a matter of time until your execution."

* * *

"And...this is going to be where you'll stay for your recovery!"

Rachel was standing in front of a large, wooden facility. Its sign proudly declared, "Institution of Healing". Marisa was next to her, carrying the minimal amount of luggage that were Rachel's possessions. In the plastic bag was a beat up purse and a sewing kit. All her clothes had had severe burn marks so they had been thrown away, being replaced by a simple white dress. And her gun was discarded, of course. It had been difficult trying to explain that one away.

"You're going to be here for a while, so…" Marisa trailed off. She looked down and gave a shaky smile to Rachel. "By the end of your sessions, you'll definitely be okay! Just like how it was before the incident. The staff here is very good, you know."

 _Like how it was before the incident?_ Rachel thought. A frown tugged at her lips as she remembered her parents. _I wonder if they burned down with the building? It took a lot of effort to get Mom and Dad from my house moved to my floor. My perfect family..._

"Rachel?"

"I'm listening," Rachel said. "Sorry."

"Um, I'm supposed to leave after dropping you off, but do you want me to come with you?" Marisa asked. "I know how it feels to go somewhere new on your own. I felt terrified when I first stepped into the hospital for work! So-"

"It's okay," she said. Rachel took the plastic bag with her items in it from Marisa and started walking towards the door. Through the windows, she could see posters pasted on beige walls. Plush chairs were scattered around the room as well, and a television screen was playing a cartoon in the corner. It was probably set up that way to make people feel welcome.

This wasn't where Rachel belonged though.

"Good luck!" she heard Marisa shout from behind. She turned around to see the woman waving before opening the car door and sliding into the driver's seat. After a moment of hesitation on the nurse's part, Marisa's car puttered away, leaving behind small dust puffs in her wake. The road suddenly looked very lonely.

"Good luck, huh?" Rachel pushed the institute's door open, immediately being greeted with a peppy smile from the receptionist. The room was every bit as cheerful as she saw from afar, if not more. The bright lights shone into her eyes, making her blink rapidly. She could hear a music box playing somewhere.

It was...

"Hello! You're Rachel Gardner, right? Please come this way, we've been expecting you!"

...nauseating.


	4. Chapter 4

Each day was the same: wake up, eat, go to counseling, do a group activity, eat, more counseling, and then sleep. Or at least, Rachel tried to sleep. No matter how many times she tossed and turned in the night, she was unable to fall unconscious. No matter how many times she tried to blank out her mind, or no matter how many times she gulped down medicine designed for this very purpose, it was pretty much useless.

Rachel sighed. She slipped out from the covers of the bed, unflinching when her feet met cold wood. Judging from the shadowy figures of the clock, it was already past midnight. Everyone else in the institute should be asleep. Even so, Rachel stood still in the middle of the room, straining her ears for any presence besides her own. She stayed like that for several minutes until she was finally convinced that no one was about to peek in.

"..." Rachel padded over to the desk and quietly slid a drawer open. There was a small compartment to it that she had discovered one day in a fit of boredom. A secret space that only the tiniest of hands could get to, perfect for hiding away items. In it, a serrated knife sat innocently, gleaming from the moonlight. Bits of it were flaking off. Some of it was rust, some of it was blood. It hardly mattered.

The knife had just appeared on her desk about a month ago, wrapped in a familiar looking handkerchief. It definitely wasn't any of the staff. It couldn't have been be any of the patients here either, how would they have known to bring it to her if found?

The only clue to the identity of the sender was a note that read, _"T_ _ake good care of him"_ in elegant cursive. It didn't help with figuring out who brought it to her at all, nor why they used a male pronoun to refer to an inanimate object.

(It kind of made her think that they weren't referring to the knife at all.)

Rachel pressed a finger onto the knife, watching red bead like tiny droplets of dew. She couldn't do more because then her counselor would find out. Like the countless nights before it, Rachel considered taking it to her own throat and letting her blood stain the floors. No doubt it would be a hassle to get out from the wood. Although _she_ wouldn't be the one having to worry about that.

There was no reason not to. There was something nice about death absolving her of all sins. Even if God wasn't really prevalent in her life anymore, a wretched person like her didn't deserve to live. You didn't need a Bible to know that. After all, what kind of girl murdered her own parents? What kind of girl sewed up living things for her own selfishness? What kind of girl used people for her own merits?

"I couldn't be useful to Zack, in the end," Rachel said softly. She turned the knife over in her hands. The handle was melted from the time she used it to activate the lever and the blade was chipped. _All these times,_ Rachel thought, _Zack helped me but I can't even do the same_.

From what little she had managed to gather, Zack was in prison and that fact would likely never change. The staff murmured to each other that he deserved much worse. Rachel wanted to yell at them, yell that they were wrong but she knew from previous experiences that all that it would lead to were invasive questions and saccharine reassurances.

She was so sick of it all.

Still, there was a little bit of hope in her bitter heart that maybe, just maybe, Zack would smash back into her life. Like those fairy tales she had read as a child, the ones with the princes on white horses and love of all kinds. Rachel had hated those as she grew older. They described everything that she would never be able to have.

Maybe this was the same as that, then.

* * *

"Fuck you," Zack spat, his eyes glaring hatefully at the bitch who stood above him. She closed her hands around the bars of his cell. A triumphant look was disguised, but barely so. He wished he could slice her fingers off.

"Say as much as you'd like," she said. "The trial's going splendidly. Not for you, of course, but for the side of justice. By the end of today, your sentence will finally be ruled."

"Your justice is bullshit," Zack told her.

The bitch tsked. "I was hoping that the foul language would go away on its own… Although it'll no longer be a concern soon." She laughed a little, evidently amused by her terrible humour.

"Anyway, I should head back to the court proceedings. Prepare your last words, Foster." She pushed herself away from the cell and walked out, her heels clacking against stone, the noise completely disappearing when she left the prison.

Zack leaned on the wall, his head tilted back. "Dammit! I need to get out," he muttered. He grasped for his scythe before realizing that it had been long broken and abandoned in a burning ditch. So instead, Zack opted for slamming his fist on the ground.

Unexpectedly, something rattled at the impact. "The hell was that?" He squinted and turned his head sideways. A silver bobby pin lay on the ground, barely gleaming in the flickering light.

"That-" Zack immediately stopped himself. He discreetly scanned the vicinity for cameras. Sure enough, there was one in the corner watching his every move. "-was absolutely nothing, what a bother," he groused alternatively. Inside, though, Zack was cackling with glee.

 _That bitch must've dropped it when she was leaning over!_

He masked his growing smile with a bandaged hand as he shifted around, sliding the bobby pin up his sleeve. _Just you wait, Ray. I'm not about to let some brat make a liar out of me yet!_

* * *

Routine, routine. As per usual, Rachel checked the surroundings before pulling out the knife, her finger tapping the dulled blade absentmindedly. It stung slightly, but it was nothing compared to what Zack was going through right now. _The Reverend was right._ _It's all my fault. I said I would get him out, but all I did was land him behind the bars._ She clenched her hands tightly, digging her fingernails into skin.

The oath she said she would bear as her own...its weight was crushing.

Today, too, would be a sleepless night.

* * *

The trial was over.

(Zack tucked the bobby pin under his bandages. Even though it stabbed at him annoyingly, it would definitely be worth it to see Ray's expression when he broke out. He couldn't wait to see what kind of interesting face she would have.)

* * *

It had been four months since she and Zack had been separated. Tonight, as usual, Rachel held the knife in her hands, her mind whispering that she should just do it; after all, nobody would do it for her. Still, the hope of rescue hung on like a leech, sucking up every thought until she put the knife down, half-heartedly promising herself that she would do it another day.

(It was a foolish hope. Perfect for a foolish girl like her.)

* * *

"For the crimes of serial murder and kidnapping, Isaac Foster…"

* * *

 _Zack, if you're out there, please-_

* * *

"...was sentenced to death."

* * *

 _-save me._

* * *

"It's time." The cell doors slid open with a clang. A burly police officer grabbed Zack and immediately secured handcuffs on his wrists. From further behind, the bitch waited with a smug expression, her arms crossed.

"No need to get so touchy, Christ," Zack said for the sake of appearances. He flexed his finger, making sure the bobby pin was still there. It was.

"Hey, stop lagging behind," the police officer grunted, shoving him slightly.

Everything was in place. The actors, the props, the setting. Zack lowered his head, hiding a grin as he was led out of the cell.

 _Showtime._


	5. Chapter 5

"So, Rachel, is there anything you feel uneasy about?"

"No, not really."

 _But that's a lie, isn't it?_ her mind whispered. Rachel only curled her fists tighter in her lap, white dress bunched up at her knees. It didn't matter what she felt, did it? Nobody cared about her, not really. It was probably for the better. She always ended up hurting those who did.

"...Alright then. Well, that should be enough for today. I apologize for being late, an appointment with another child ran over time." Her therapist, Ms. Simmons, shut the folder in front of her and gave Rachel a warm smile.

"I'll take you to your room, then. It's about time for you to sleep," Ms. Simmons said, glancing at her watch.

"It's fine, I can go back on my own," Rachel said.

Ms. Simmons frowned slightly. "I'm sorry, but we can't let you do that. It's protocol." Rachel stared back for a few seconds before inclining her head. The therapist seemed relieved. With her folder in hand, she opened the door. "Let's get going, shall we?"

The therapist left the room, but Rachel lingered behind for a bit longer. A strange longing seized her heart, pulling incessantly. Her eyes were drawn to the small window. _Maybe I can climb out there and run away? I would be gone before they notice._

But what would be the point? There was nothing for her out there. The window was too high, anyway. She shook her head and slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her with a quiet click.

"What a beautiful moon," the therapist said, pausing in front of the window. "On nights like these, it's best to hop right into bed."

Rachel glanced out the window in dull curiosity. It was a full moon, contrasting against the black veil of night sequined with glittering stars. Its glow was almost blinding in intensity. And if she squinted, there was almost a bluish tinge around its perimeter. _It was also like this back then, wasn't it…?_

"Rachel?" She looked up to find that Ms. Simmons was already halfway down the hallway. It was too dark to see her expression, but it was likely one of concern. "Are you coming?"

"Yeah," Rachel said softly.

"You've really improved, you know. You're almost ready to leave, although it'll be a while until that actually happens. But you should be proud of yourself. You've come a long way from obsessing about _him._ "

There was a sound of shuffling. As Rachel drew nearer, she could see that Ms. Simmons appeared vaguely nervous. "Say, are you still worried about him? That Isaac Foster, even if he's in prison, it's perfectly natural to be afraid. Even I'm a little scared that he'll try to break out."

 _I hope, I hope-_ "I'm not."

"There's something I know that might reassure you. I shouldn't be telling you this, but it's alright, probably. You really have come a long way." At this point, it almost sounded like the therapist was rambling to herself. Rachel shifted around, her feet growing cold from the wooden floors. Finally, Ms. Simmons mustered up her courage and spoke.

"That killer," Ms. Simmons looked at Rachel square in the eyes, "is to be executed."

"...I see. Is that so?" Rachel wrapped her arms around herself. Something in her stomach sank, a cold and heavy mass that tugged at her innards. It felt like they were about to drop and leave only an empty space inside.

Even though it was summer, the hallway only grew colder as the therapist continued to speak. "Yes. I hope with that thought, you'll be able to sleep peacefully. Now, off to bed. I'll see you in the morning." She was shooed into her room and the door shut behind her, a firm and echoing sound.

Rachel listened to Ms. Simmons's steps fading away in time with the ticking of the clock. When she could no longer hear them, she turned around. The space was bathed in a soft, moonlight glow, the shadow of the windows stretching onto wooden panels. The outline of the moon could barely be seen through the silk curtains.

"The truth is," Rachel said to the emptiness of the room, "I haven't had a single restful night of sleep since I got here." The wood creaked mournfully as she, like many nights before, walked over to stand in front of the desk. Taking the knife out from its hidden crevice, she placed it on the surface and watched as light danced on the edge of the blade. As soon as Rachel took a step forward, though, the light was immediately snuffed out by her shadow.

 _(That killer is to be executed.)_

"Ah…I really am no good," she whispered. With a soft sigh, Rachel put away the knife, weariness suddenly tugging her eyes. Perhaps she might actually be able to go to sleep tonight.

She stopped at the side of her bed, hand lingering over straightened sheets. Before everything, Rachel remembered kneeling down every night to offer a short prayer to God. A thanks for the day and a hope for a better one when morning dawned.

Nowadays, she didn't bother. But…

 _(...executed.)_

Just once more wouldn't hurt.

* * *

The steady ticking of the clock, the midnight concert of crickets, the whistling breeze of the wind… It seemed like tonight would also be sleepless, no matter how much she had hoped otherwise. Rachel squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her face against a soft, downy pillow as if to smother all breaths.

 _Rachel, if you can't go to sleep, try counting something. It doesn't have to be sheep, but the repetitive motions may lull you to sleep. You might think it's childish, but give it a try! There's a reason why so many people say it to their children._

Flipping over to her back, Rachel inhaled deeply before fixating onto the rhythmic beat of the clock. It wasn't like there was anything else for her to do.

 _One, two, three, four, five, six…._

Just when she had gotten to four-hundred and was about to doze off, a strange noise, like small pebbles being thrown at glass, interrupted her counting, effectively chasing off the shadows of sleep that had been creeping in. Rachel frowned and huddled deeper into her blankets, wishing the irritating sound would go away.

A thud resonated in the room, suddenly loud compared to the small ones from before. Hastily, Rachel slid off the covers and looked around. Another thud pinpointed the source coming from…

"The window?" she uttered. _Is it late night construction? Or..._

"Rachel? What's that sound?" Rachel could hear Ms. Simmons from the other side of the wall. _So it's not from someone who works here?_ Rachel thought, her heart beating louder and louder until it was almost the same volume as the banging coming from outside. _If it's not someone from here, then…_

Rachel ran to her desk and threw the drawer open, taking the knife with her before slamming it shut. It grazed her finger but she could hardly care less. She then eyed the cardboard boxes pushed against the wall, filled with books to the brim. Coming to a decision, Rachel shoved them in front of the door, straining her muscles to quickly block entry.

Just in the nick of time too, judging from the increasingly frantic jiggles of the doorknob and Ms. Simmons's equally frantic voice. "Rachel? Rachel, open up right now! Do you hear me? Rachel?"

She stepped towards the window and opened the curtains. Rachel took a step back, the spindly spiderweb cracks spreading on the window further increased in size as the banging continued. It might've been her mind playing tricks on her ( _oh God, please let it not be),_ but through the glazed glass, she thought she could make out a dark figure.

"What's going on in there? ...I-I got to call the police!" Footsteps faded away as Ms. Simmons's voice disappeared. Giving the door behind her a cursory glance, Rachel pressed her hands onto the window, hopes soaring higher with every thud. _On the other side...On the other side, could it be-?_ Unconsciously, she leaned even closer. Then-

"-Get back!"

"!"

Wide-eyed, Rachel scrambled backwards and fell onto the floor, barely catching herself with splayed fingers. She didn't feel pain at all, only absorbed in the sight before her as the window _shattered_ into pieces.

There was glass sprinkled in a bed of black-tousled hair, catching light and bouncing off until it shone into Rachel's eyes. Despite it, she kept looking. A childish part of her insisted that if she dared to blink, the image would be gone and never to return.

She got up on shaky legs and took a step forward. And then another, and then she was walking with no hesitation. The curtains blew on either side of the figure perched on the windowsill; the moon shining behind was reminiscent of a halo.

Like...an angel.

"Taaada!"

The knife clattered besides her, having fallen out of her grip. Rachel traced the outline of his face, red-stained bandages wrapped around every patch of skin only to let mismatched eyes show. Noticing her attention, he tilted his head to the side, giving the sense of an unsaid, _Well?_ with a crooked grin.

"...Zack?" she whispered.

His grin only grew larger as he, _Zack_ , replied, "Aw, look at ya makin' that face again. How boring."

"Zack, how did…" Rachel's voice got stuck in her throat.

"Huh? How did I what?"

"You're not...you're supposed to be in prison!"

Zack laughed, leaning against the wall. "Prisons, they're pretty much meant to be broken out of, right?!"

"But back then, I said I'd bear the outcome of our oath." Even now, though, she could feel her body getting lighter as if being relieved of a heavy weight. It was freeing.

"So what? I mean, do ya even have the right to bear it? It's not just yours, it's ours!" At that, Zack jabbed a thumb at himself, looking strangely pleased.

"Zack...so you still want to...kill me?" _Me, a useless girl who only drags people down. Me, a selfish girl who tries to take everything away from others-_

"Who d'ya think you're talking to here? I never lose sight of somethin' I want, right?!"

It was something in his eyes, brimming with smugness and a dash of fear (fear of what? Rejection? She could _never_ -) that made her move. She stretched a wavering hand in his direction but not before Zack could see. He climbed back onto the windowsill and said gruffly, smile fading slightly, "Hurry up. We don't have much time left. Or did you forget?"

With her outstretched arm, Rachel grasped onto the worn fabric of Zack's hoodie. He looked back, slightly startled. "No, Zack," she said.

From the window, she could see lines of cars blinking, the invisible breeze of a hot summer. Tiny ants of people moved in the streets, even at this time of night. All in all, it was a normal sight to see on any given day.

But right now, it felt like she was on the top of the world.

"I'd never forget," she told him. Her tears broke free as she smiled up at him, uncaring of appearances. "It's an oath you and I swore together, right?

"You and I," he echoed before his grin returned full blast without a trace of doubt. "Yeah, that's more like it!"

"Hurry, this way!" a familiar voice, Ms. Simmons, yelled. The two of them flinched, Zack swearing under his breath.

"Ah, shit." He snapped his attention back to Rachel who was still clinging to his jacket. "Ready to go, Ray?"

"Mhm...yeah," she said as the sound of multiple battering rams filled the room. She scanned the place she had resided in for the span of several months. Rachel wouldn't be missing it anytime soon. Her eyes alighted onto the dropped knife, gleaming on the floor. _Now that Zack's here...I won't need it anymore,_ she thought, flicking her gaze back.

"Time to hit the road," Rachel heard him mumble. He tightened an arm around her shoulders, preparing to leave. It was a comforting kind of warmth. The kind of warmth that made you feel like everything was going to turn out okay.

"Hey, Zack?"

"Yeah?"

"Please...kill me," she said with a tearful but bright smile, tilting her head back.

Zack ruffled her hair shortly before leaping out the window, Rachel in tow. Over the whistling over the wind, she could barely hear him yell with a sort of glee, "Then stop crying and smile!"

Rachel Gardner knew she was useless, selfish. That's why she had turned to God; because people had told her that He accepted everyone as His children, that His love was unconditional. But in the end...it wasn't really because of faith that she believed in God, was it? She wanted to be desired in both life and death. Something that was never given to her by her parents or by anyone else (until now).

Her problems (and Rachel knew that she had them) wouldn't miraculously float away. She wouldn't just wake up and suddenly become a normal girl. No, when she woke the next morning, she would still be the useless and selfish girl that she was now.

 _But maybe it's okay to be selfish just this once,_ she thought as she ran, wind whipping back her hair. Zack was by her side, yelling at her to _hurry it up, why don't ya?_ as police sirens blared from behind. Her tears had long dried and she could feel a flush to her cheeks from a mixture of adrenaline and joy. Above them, the moon watched on benevolently.

Rachel Gardner and Isaac Foster, united in an oath of death.

...That didn't sound too bad.

Not bad at all.


End file.
